


Kozlinaja Borodka

by dyeingdoll, SnarkyBreeze



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Katsuki Yuuri, Viktuuri Fluff Bang 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 11:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18120137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyeingdoll/pseuds/dyeingdoll, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: In the weeks after Viktor breaks his hip, Yuuri takes care of his every need. Then the competition season starts up, and Yuuri starts working 80 hour weeks to maintain Viktor’s growing roster of students. Suddenly spending most of his time alone, Viktor is faced with having to care for himself once more.Which is how the beard starts.





	Kozlinaja Borodka

“Shh, Vitya, you’re okay, I’m not going to let you fall,” Yuuri murmured into their husband’s ear.  They had his arms draped over their shoulders, just as the nurses had shown them, and his feet positioned carefully on a swivel step, and they were just trying their hardest to be gentle as they moved him from his wheelchair into his brand-new lift chair.  They lowered Viktor down, just as the nurse had shown them, and tried not to cry at the pitiful moans that tore through him as his weight shifted.

“Where were you three weeks ago?” Viktor hissed, gasping as he settled into the chair.

It was an unfair question, one Viktor would never ask in his right mind.

Three weeks ago, Yuuri was competing in Nationals while 4,000 miles away, Viktor fell, shattering his hip and ending his career as a competitive skater for good.  It had been thirteen hours from the moment Yuuri had received Yakov’s call to the moment they’d reached their husband’s side at the hospital—record time, everyone kept reminding them, but that didn’t ease the guilt that pressed on them from all sides.

They weren’t there for the moment that literally wrecked Vitya.

The love of their life had to wait and wonder if Yuuri would ever be there for him.

“Is this comfortable?” they asked, gulping down the surge of emotion that was starting to build just behind their temples. They adjusted a foam bolster to take some of the weight off Viktor’s hip.

“First class,” Viktor mumbled, half-conscious from the painkillers.  “You’re the professional.”

For three weeks, this had been the state of Yuuri’s husband.  Either he was drugged and drowsy and always on the verge of drifting into a deep sleep, or he was moaning and crying and begging Yuuri to put him back together.

Something more had broken three weeks ago, but Yuuri would never let their husband feel abandoned like they had then.  Not ever again.

They lifted Viktor’s hand and held it gently to their lips, kissing each knuckle and then each fingertip.  The tension eased in the Living Legend’s forehead as Yuuri lowered the chair to its full recline, a blissful expression blooming in his face followed by a sympathetic smile.  

“I’m sorry, you’re beautiful, but I’m married,” he muttered, eyelashes fluttering as he fought against the hypnotic effect of the cocktail of drugs that kept him comfortable.  “You must be married too. You have the same ring as my spouse.”

Yuuri could hold back no longer.  The tears that had been threatening to spill ever since they arrived home came forth in shuddering waves, and they sank to their knees beside the lift chair, still gripping Viktor’s hand in both of theirs.  

“Who could even be lucky enough to marry someone as beautiful as you?” Viktor slurred on, and Yuuri laughed, peppering the back of his hand with even more kisses.

“Someone fantastic,” they said through a little wet hiccough.  “Someone selfless and gorgeous, who was willing to take a chance on me when even I didn’t have any faith in myself.”

Viktor snorted disapprovingly.  “Sounds like an idiot to me,” he grumbled, licking his lips and letting his eyes fully shut.  “I have to… the jar of… never enough. А дело бывало — и коза волка съедала.”

Yuuri’s chest ached.  They missed evening conversations with Viktor and snuggling under a mountain of blankets with not an item of clothing between the two of them.  They missed his wit, his doting affection, everything that had been put on hold by the tragedy that befell this aching man who continued to mumble in Russian as he drifted off into sleep.

They knew he wouldn’t remember.  They knew that eventually they’d get sore and have to drag themself back to the bedroom to sleep the rest of the night alone.  But after situating Viktor with a blanket and smoothing back his hair to kiss along his hairline, they sank down to sit against the side of the recliner, wrapped themself up in a blanket of their own, and curled up with their head resting right next to Viktor’s hand.  If they wanted, they could nuzzle into him and feel the warmth of his skin against theirs, or reach up and rub their thumb gently over his wrist. In any case, it was only slightly less lonely than going back to the vast and very empty king-sized bed.

“Yeah, that man did some stupid things for the likes of me,” they mused, pulling their blanket tighter.  “I love him with everything I have. I’ll never let him fall again.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Ouch.   _ Ouch, _ Yuuri!”  Viktor groaned as his spouse helped him lower unsteadily into the pillow-lined, remote-control reclining chair that sat in the middle of their open-plan apartment, breaking the flow of their minimalist decor with its mess of cables and wedges and sheets.

That recliner was Viktor’s life.

A bolster had drifted from its usual position and gotten caught right under Viktor’s left hip (the broken one), sending a jolt up his spine that had him seeing stars as an unexpected pressure caused bone to grate against bone, or metal, or whatever else was holding him together now.

Viktor had been slotted to take gold at Worlds for the second time since his return to the ice two and a half years ago (having lost it only once to Yurio his first season back), until a fall during Nationals took him out for the rest of the season - and the start of the next, as well.  

The worst part was that there wasn’t even a story behind it.  He’d misjudged a quad lutz as he warmed up for his free skate.  He could remember the brief sensation of flailing mid-air, unsure of what to do to correct before he landed.  He could remember the sickening crack, like breaking up firewood, and an explosion on his left side, searing pain that had him wondering if his leg had come clean off.  It had felt like a lifetime of laying on the ice, unable to move, the ice prickling his skin where it made contact, before the med team had gotten to him. It had felt like a lifetime more of numbly answering questions as the doctor prodded and manipulated various parts of his body before they finally moved him onto a stretcher and whisked him away.

He’d never felt anything as excruciating as that first transfer.

Except maybe the pain of knowing Yuuri was hours away, competing in their own National Championships.

Or the pain, two days later, of discovering that Yuuri had dropped out before the competition was over to fly to St. Petersburg.  That once there, they barely left Viktor’s hospital bed, moving only when ordered by the physician or when they needed food. They were there to see the x-ray, littered with red lines indicating fractures that scattered over three sections of Viktor’s hip.

The doctor had described it as, “a really nasty break.”

The pain from his misplaced bolster didn’t even really go away.  It lingered; it always lingered, throbbing in his side and his neck until he thought he might be sick.  He gripped Yuuri’s hand with a little, unconscious sob as his spouse swiftly re-adjusted the cushion to its intended position.  Yuuri finished lowering him down into the recliner, huffing lightly from exertion and probably a fair amount of frustration, and let their head fall lightly onto Viktor’s shoulder when they were done.  

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri’s breath warmed his skin just at the edge of his collar, and Viktor almost -  _ almost _ \- forgot about the pain.  “I didn’t notice it in time.  Are you good now?”

Viktor nodded.  “You take such good care of me, love,” he hummed, turning his head to press a kiss onto Yuuri’s cheek before he was lowered back into the chair for the evening.  Yuuri was already fishing for the remote. Soon they would put Viktor’s legs up, bring him his meds, and pour him some fermented fruit drink that was supposed to replace his evening glass of wine, but instead just tasted like vinegar.  Then Yuuri would go and do the dishes, and the painkillers would drag Viktor into a light and restless sleep before they even finished.

“You’re scratchy,” Yuuri giggled, pulling back a bit and returning the kiss.  They dragged a soft thumb along Viktor’s cheek and the gentle friction of their skin against the silver stubble sent shivers down Viktor’s spine, easing the tension in his shoulders.

Yuuri had the magic touch.  Yuuri had been there, fussing, soothing, and comforting, ever since the break.  Most importantly, they helped Viktor maintain the activities of daily life that made him feel like a person and not some fragile, living doll, collecting dust on the shelves.  They’d been there every moment of the off-season, turning down press opportunities and ice shows in favor of playing manager of Viktor’s recovery. Yuuri had typed up charts and lists and schedules all centered around keeping Viktor on a steady path to recovery.  They’d brought Viktor into the shower with them every night, transferring him onto a plastic shower chair and scrubbing him from head to toe before cleaning themself.

Yuuri was an angel.

They’d found the amount of money necessary to convince Sebastian to fly to St. Petersburg from Switzerland every three weeks just to maintain Viktor’s meticulous haircut schedule without the need for travel, and even signed him up to a high-end wardrobe subscription service to satiate his shopping addiction.  Yuuri had overcome their fear of the straight razor, practicing on themself and suffering only a few little nicks in the process, so that they could keep Viktor’s face clean-shaven, even on days when he couldn’t make it out of bed from the pain.

Viktor was spoiled rotten, and he couldn’t exactly say he minded.

Of course, he minded the ache of sitting still for literal weeks on end.  He always minded the constant soreness in his side, with its accompanying stings and smarts and spasms, or the alternating pressure pad that thrummed and hissed like the breathing of some large animal beneath him as he tried to sleep each night.

Viktor minded the sickening reality of physical therapy, four times a week, as a cheery-faced practitioner helped him re-learn how to simply move the leg he’d once used to propel himself into record-breaking quads.  He minded the prospect of never being able to do another quad in his life.

But Viktor didn’t mind Yuuri combing his hair before bed, or climbing into his chair after dinner and stroking his cheek as they watched tv, or the little, wry jokes they made while carefully maneuvering Viktor’s pants up over his scar in the morning.

Yuuri was more than Viktor could ever deserve.

And Yuuri was going back to work tomorrow.

The off-season was nearing its end, and Viktor’s roster of students was not getting any smaller.  Yakov had graciously taken Yuuri on in his absence, but Yuuri was a special consideration, practically Yakov’s in-law.  Faced with the prospect of losing his five other skaters, Viktor reluctantly allowed his spouse to shoulder the load until he was back on his feet.

As if he’d ever had the power to stop Yuuri from doing something once their mind was set on it.  Yuuri would have found a way to take over his clientele one way or another, whether they were aware of it or not.

And he loved them for that.  More than anything.

“I have to take Makka out,” Yuuri said, straightening up, and Viktor whined as they moved out of reach.

“Come ride this down with me first,” he said with a pout, indicating toward the lift chair’s remote.  Although Yuuri made a great show of rolling their eyes and sighing with exasperation, they still perched on the right armrest, legs tucked up carefully underneath them.  Viktor wrapped a steady arm around their waist and pulled them close.

“Mmm, that’s better,” Viktor hummed as the chair slowly reclined, taking the pressure off his hip rocking Yuuri back into him.  “Are you sure you have to start coaching tomorrow? I’m going to miss having this whenever I want.”

Yuuri snorted.  “Yeah, let me just run the numbers on that, and I’ll let you know how much income that’ll put us out.”

“Worth it,” Viktor murmured, letting his eyes flutter closed as he and Yuuri settled into the perfect snuggle.  “Could I trouble you for one last shave before you leave me to my own devices?” he hummed into the curve of Yuuri’s neck, unable to suppress his satisfied grin when the skin jumped to gooseflesh beneath his lips.

Yuuri melted back into his touch.  “I think you should take the opportunity to get back into the habit of doing it yourself,” they said.  “Gotta start sometime.”

Viktor had to fight the impulse to protest, mostly because he knew Yuuri was right, and because Yuuri deserved everything they wanted.  Yuuri deserved  _ everything _ .

“But  _ tomorrow,  _ love,” Yuuri purred, letting their hand drift lazily up and down Viktor’s chest.  “Let’s just relax tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” Viktor relented, lapping at Yuuri’s pulse point without any attempt at restraint.  “Okay, I’ll do that.”

 

He didn’t.

 

Viktor didn’t shave the next day, or the day after that, or the week after that.  He meant to. He made a point to remind himself of it, as did Yuuri in many of the “good morning” notes they left next to the packet of pills on the side table.

 

_ “Good morning!  The PT is coming at 10:00.  Shave your beard! <3 - Yuu” _

 

Viktor went about his daily to-do while Yuuri was at work, filling out each day as best he could with phone interviews, administrative duties, physical therapy, and a modified daily exercise regimen that he’d had approved by his doctor and that grew more involved with every passing week.  The process of healing was slow going, and the step count on his smartwatch was increasing with every day. Of course, it was difficult to keep from getting frustrated when a simple trip from the kitchen to the bathroom, hobbling along on crutches and trying to put weight on his left side as much as possible, left him exhausted and sore.  

Pushing himself in the morning was his way of getting back into the lifestyle he’d been so accustomed to until the accident.  He’d endured an entire summer of sleeping in, or worse, spending entire days in bed. These days, he let himself sleep in no later than an hour after Yuuri left, and tried to stay on his feet until he absolutely needed to rest.  

Ok, well, that’s how it started out, anyway.

He was still doing Physical Therapy every other day, after all, and Sasha was still expertly pushing him just beyond his limit with every session.  Some days, PT was all he was capable of getting done, aside from reviewing the practice videos Yuuri made of his skaters’ programs, or some paperwork he could manage from the lift chair.  The day after therapy was often worse, and though he’d make himself get up on schedule as promised, he was back in the chair by noon, zoning out in front of a true crime documentary or listening to a playlist of his skaters’ proposed program music and taking a few scattered notes, or just drifting in and out of sleep until Yuuri got home.

Every day felt like waiting until Yuuri got home.

And maybe that was just it—Viktor was lonely.  After all, who did he see all day anyway? Makkachin, but he couldn’t even let her up in the chair with him to snuggle, and it was still uncomfortable to lay completely flat in bed, so he wasn’t getting his daily dose of face kisses.  He saw Sasha, and Sasha was nice; he joked and chatted with Viktor during their sessions, but always maintained that one last level of professional detachment that left Viktor wanting as he walked out the door. There was Agnieszka, the college student who came to walk Makkachin for him in the mornings, although her English wasn’t spectacular and her Russian even worse; their conversations were few and far between, and even then very brief.  He suspected by the way she blushed and kept her eyes on Makka that she was a fan.

It wasn’t like Viktor to be this needy.  He couldn’t remember any time in the years before Yuuri came into his life that he really felt lonely, even if he knew that underneath it all, he was.  At that time, it was himself he was missing, not anyone else. Before Yuuri, he’d spent most of his time practicing, but then he’d go home and fade into the wallpaper.  He’d only felt alive when he was skating, and after a while, even that began to blur into a series of motions, uninspired and disconnected.

Once Yuuri started opening up to him in Hasetsu, Viktor felt himself re-materialize, bit by bit, and the excitement he’d always felt on the ice began to bubble up, warm and sparkling in his chest.

But now his spouse was out before he woke up and not home until Viktor was exhausted and aching and feeling the effects of his painkillers.  Sometimes, he’d fall asleep long before Yuuri returned. Sometimes the two would go an entire day without speaking. They’d text, and Yuuri would leave their sweet notes in the morning, of course, but neither really made up for the lack of contact at home.

One night, Viktor had just finished dinner when he heard the key turn in the lock and the door swing open.  Thankful he hadn’t gotten to his meds yet, he swept his takeout containers off of the table into their bag and pushed the wheeled tray out of his way.

“Yuuri, sweet dear, come see me!” he called, reclining his chair just a bit.  “I missed you!”

Yuuri dragged their practice bag behind them as they trudged over, planting a kiss on the top of Viktor’s head.

“Lemme shower first,” they puffed, cupping Viktor’s cheek with their free hand and giving him another little peck on his forehead.  “I’m glad you’re awake today,” they added, and then they disappeared in the direction of the bathroom, and Viktor heard the hiss of the shower turning on.

When Yuuri emerged, still pink from the spray of the hot water and damp hair pulled back into a braid at their back, Viktor caught their waist with his outstretched arm and scooped them up over the armrest into his lap, pressing a kiss into the curve of their jaw.

“Vitya,” Yuuri gasped, curling up against Viktor with a little moan.  “Oh my god, if you keep me here too long I’m not going to want to get up and walk Makkachin,” they said.

“Come here,” Viktor hummed, pulling Yuuri up into his arms.  “That scent is enchanting, love. What is that, muscle cream?”

“I thought you’d like it,” Yuuri sighed, his warm breath dancing across Viktor’s neck and causing the hairs at the back of his neck to stand on end.  “Well, that and I’ve never been so sore in my entire life.”

Viktor laughed before leaning in to nip their ear and whispered, “You are so amazing, my love, in your strength.  What can I do to help you unwind? A back rub? Foot rub? I think we have a little more himalayan salt left if you’d like me to draw you a bath.”

He tilted his head to kiss the sensitive spot behind Yuuri’s ear, but Yuuri nearly jumped up from his lap with a yelp before his lips found their mark.

“Oh, you tickle!” they giggled, shifting away so Viktor’s scruff couldn’t brush against his neck.  “A bath  _ would _ be nice, but after I walk Makka, I need to get to bed.”

Viktor sighed.  “Yuu, I miss you.  If we stack the pillows right, I could get in bed with you,” he suggested, brushing a thumb hopefully across the back of Yuuri’s hand.  “I’ve got to start doing it sometime.”

“You’ve got to start doing it two weeks from now, when Dr. Andreev has you cleared,” Yuuri said, their expression sympathetic but stern.  Viktor recognized it, with a twinge of bitterness, as the face they used when they reasoned with the Nishigori kids. “Last time we tried that, you rolled over on your side, and the next day you were so stiff you couldn’t get up to pee.”

Viktor nuzzled back into Yuuri’s shoulder with a little whine, and they cradled him there for a little bit, painting kisses along his hairline and letting their fingers drift, feather-light, up and down his bicep, sending shivers up and down his spine.

“I could sleep right here tonight,” they suggested after a few minutes.  “On the futon. I know it’s not the same, but—“

“No,” Viktor insisted, suddenly very tired.  “No, after such a hard day, you deserve the comfort of your own bed.  I’m sorry for making such a fuss.”

Yuuri let themself relax back into his arms, flexing and stretching for just a moment as a yawn overtook them.  Viktor knew he should have encouraged them to get up—he knew once Yuuri was out, they would wake up for nothing and no-one.  But as the rise and fall of their chest began to even out, and their head grew heavier against his shoulder, Viktor couldn’t bring himself to wake them with reminders of further responsibility.  Makkachin needed walkies, but her Papa didn’t have the heart to rouse the sleeping beauty on his lap.

Yuuri was soft against him, slowly melting into dead weight, the rhythm of their breathing constant and calming, like the distant crashing of waves against the beach.  Given another half an hour, that adorable, delicate snooze would evolve into a full-out snore, and if they were in bed together, Viktor would toss and turn before reaching for his ear plugs.  He sort of missed that. Now, the drugs were strong enough to drown out anything, even his love, fast asleep across the room. 

He entertained the thought of keeping Yuuri on his lap all night, holding them close and breathing them in, but he was already growing sore, and he knew if his spouse stayed here, curled up awkwardly in the chair, they’d have their own share of aches and pains in the morning.  

With a crutch propped up and ready to his left, he grabbed the remote.  As the chair lifted him to his feet, he hoisted Yuuri up over his shoulder on the good side and carried them slowly over to the bed, doing his best to adjust and compensate as he maneuvered.

He was thankful he managed to not drop them, the way they rag-dolled down off his shoulder and onto the mattress.  Sitting at the edge of the bed, Viktor adjusted Yuuri into a comfortable position and pulled the blanket up around them.

It just wasn’t fair that he had to get up, to leave them lying here, alone and un-snuggled, while he went back to the chair and slipped into unconsciousness.

But Makka still needed to go out.  Viktor decided it was worth the challenge of hobbling down the hall to the elevator just to breathe in the fresh air as she sniffed around the bushes by the building’s side entrance.  The trip back up was slow and tedious, but Makka seemed to enjoy the chance to dawdle in the halls. She snaked along the floor, stopping occasionally to sniff under a neighbor’s door, until they made it back to their apartment.  Viktor rested his forehead against the doorframe as he fished out his key.

He settled back into his chair, decidedly very sore now, and counted his evening meds out into his palm.  He couldn’t help but feel a hint of embarrassment at the way Yuuri had bristled at his kiss. He hadn’t really noticed the difference his whiskers made until then.

Soon, only a handful of weeks away, he’d  _ have _ to do something about his mountain-man visage.  Hopefully, by then, he’d find the energy.

 

* * *

  
  


A few weeks later, Viktor was leaning on a crutch in front of the bathroom mirror, examining the scraggle of brassy silver-blonde hair on his chin.  Everything was quiet except for the hiss of the shower and Yuuri’s occasional yawn.

He had to do it.  There was a press conference in the afternoon to discuss his recovery and his return to coaching the next day; if he was anything less than his media best there would be a flood of online chatter about whether he was rushing this, and about his age, everything.

He was already going to have to talk to the reporters about the end of his career as a skater.  God, he didn’t want any of it. He would love if the press had any interest in what Yuuri had been doing with the students, or literally anything that didn’t bring attention to the injury that had overturned his life.  

Maybe if he kept the beard, they’d be too distracted to talk about anything else.  He knew it wasn’t realistic, but maybe some little change in his appearance would be a refreshing way to turn the conversation away from anything too sensitive.

The stream of the shower stopped and Yuuri stepped out, wringing the water from their hair as they trudged over to the rack to grab their towel.

“‘S it gone yet?” they mumbled, twisting the towel up on their head like an oversized turban and wandering over to drape themselves lazily over Viktor’s shoulder.

“‘S about to be,” Viktor replied, “Wanna give it a kiss goodbye?”

Yuuri laughed, their smile pressed into the crook of Viktor’s neck, sending a chill down his spine.  “God no,” they murmured. “Kill it with fire.”

Viktor frowned.  That answer was a little too quick and a little too definite for his liking.  “Do you really hate it so much?” He asked.

“Scratchy,” Yuuri mumbled, rubbing their eyes and nudging past Viktor to get to the sink.  Either they were skirting around their real answer or today was going to be one of those fueled-by-coffee types.

Viktor started preparing his shaving cream as Yuuri brushed their teeth, a weird sort of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.  It would hardly take him ten minutes. All this beard would be gone.

“Shall we stop at Dimi’s for breakfast, my stars?” he asked, brushing a layer of white foam over his face.

Yuuri’s eyes were barely open as they squeezed toothpaste out onto their electric toothbrush, but they nodded minutely as they did, a little, longing  _ “Espresso…” _ escaping their lips.

“Mm, yes, that’ll be perfect, I think,” Viktor said.  He tested the blade on the fuzz that was creeping high over his cheekbones.  The shaving foam scraped away, leaving soft, clean skin underneath.

It was good, Viktor thought.  This was good. He was going back.

Although… he didn’t have to get rid of  _ all _ of it, right?

Maybe if he just trimmed it up…

He was strictly a coach now, after all.  Now was as good a time as any to switch up his image a little bit.

So when Yuuri brushed past him with a little, minty kiss on the temple and a playful smack on his bare ass, Viktor went into stylist mode.  Nothing too heavy-handed. He definitely didn’t want to hide his jawline; it made his face look awkward and wide. But a modest bit of well-kept goatee?  That might not be a bad look for the grand return of Viktor Nikiforov.

He could get a boar-bristle beard brush and some conditioning oil, he thought.  He could hit it with purple toner, like he did with the hair on his head, and keep everything looking uniform and classy.

It could revolutionize how he looked in a suit.

All of a sudden, Viktor was excited to go back to work.  He’d gone down hard last season, he’d left the skating world a fallen legend, but he’d return a silver fox, distinguished and experienced and always on hand to play trophy husband to his Yuuri.  

If anything, this would show people how serious he was about coaching, right?

Maybe he should start looking for a pair of glasses.

Maybe he should buy a hat.

He spent longer perfecting the edges than he would have just shaving, but he didn’t care.  If he was going to pull this off, he was going to do it right. Once he was satisfied, and he’d picked out his favorite semi-professional coordinate to match the occasion, all he needed to do was wait for his spouse to get back from walking Makkachin to debut his new look.

Yuuri dropped their keys when they came through the door, eyes wide as they processed what they were seeing.

“You missed a spot, love,” they mumbled, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Viktor’s chin.

“Oh, what a shame, the salon just closed, too,” Viktor smiled.  “Ready to go?”

Yuuri frowned.  “Vitya, you promised.”  They hung up Makkachin’s leash and walked over to inspect the beard closer, their lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line that could give Lilia a run for her money.  “Hmm. Well, it’s better than Mountain Man Vitya, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you,” Viktor grinned.

“So are you just planning to avoid Yurio, or are you prepared to deal with the constant, unending ridicule that will follow you to your grave?” Yuuri grinned back, poking at the newly-trimmed hairs of Viktor’s goatee.

“Yurio will get over it,” Viktor grumbled.  “He’s been around enough since the surgery; he knows I grew my beard out.”

He knew Yuuri was right, though.  They were always right. They suctioned to his crutch-free side and pressed a little kiss onto his cheekbone.  “I’m proud of you, Vitya,” they murmured, a change in tone from their almost-accusatory one just a moment ago. “Recovery is not easy, and I haven’t exactly been around to make sure you were doing okay.”

“Are you kidding?” Viktor hummed, kissing at the crown of Yuuri’s head as he reached for the door, “I’ve been riding on your shoulders for  _ months, _ now, Yuu, even as you filled in for me at work.”  He opened the door and they stepped out together, waving bye to Makka as they went.  “I wouldn’t have recovered without you, my Yuuri. I would still be in that stupid chair feeling sorry for myself.”

Yuuri returned his adorations with a smile that could save souls.  “Well, I’m going to need double coffee if we’re going to make it through the media extravaganza your face is going to spark today.”

“Hey now, let’s not make this our new point of contention,” Viktor chuckled.  “I’ll get you all the finest coffee Dimi’s has to offer.

_ “Espresso,” _ Yuuri corrected.  “Although in this case, maybe a shot in the dark will do the trick.”

 

* * *

  
  


“Media extravaganza” was definitely an apt prediction on Yuuri’s part, but it didn’t even begin to cover the uproar that followed Viktor’s first appearance out in public.  It was a good thing that, with his hip, he needed to call a car to get them to the rink that morning, a good thing Yuuri suggested a town car with tinted windows to do the job, because as they neared their home rink, the streets grew denser and denser with fans, photographers, and reporters.  Viktor  _ knew _ the rink hadn’t cleared this many people for the press conference.  He  _ knew _ reporters would be screened before they were admitted and that no one without a press pass would be allowed inside the building.

But he hadn’t missed these crowds.  “Viktor Nikiforov’s return” was apparently bigger, more sensational than “Viktor Nikiforov’s sixth international gold,” if the size of the swarm was any indication, and all these people, fans, amateurs with Twitter accounts and Strong Opinions would be the first to see him.  The first to photograph him, crutch and beard and all. He clenched his fingers around Yuuri’s in the back of the car.

“Nervous?” Yuuri asked with a sympathetic smile.  Viktor nodded, swallowing hard, and let his spouse scoop him up beneath their arm and squeeze his shoulders tight.  “You’ve been out of the spotlight for a while. It’s okay,” they murmured, the smooth, cool tone of their voice soothing and reassuring as Viktor fought back a wave of emotion.  “It’s nothing you haven’t done before, my love,” Yuuri reminded him. “It’s just a new haircut. You’ve done a new haircut before.”

He was right.  Viktor had done this before.  But not after such a long period of seclusion; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone nearly a year out of the public eye in his adult life, or in his adolescence for that matter.  He’d let himself grow accustomed to the unexamined life since Worlds. Granted, a decent portion of that time was spent on rehabilitation and physical therapy, but he’d gone through all the trouble of having a therapist come to his home for a reason.

He didn’t want the public to see all the baby steps it took to get him back to that point.  That struggle, that hard work, belonged to  _ Viktor, _ not anybody else.

As the town car pulled up to their usual private entrance, just barely out of sight from the masses that stood in wait  anticipating their arrival, Viktor felt his breath hitch in his throat. They had all of about a minute before the few who were in tune enough to wait by the side door spread the word to those who were huddled together at the front.

“If we run, we’ll make it without any problems,” Yuuri pointed out, straightening up and gathering the bags and drink holders from Dimi’s.  

“Easy enough for you to say,” Viktor snorted, indicating towards his crutch with the hint of a smile, and started to prepare to jump out of the car himself.

With a laugh, Yuuri let go of their things long enough to remove their long, hand-knit scarf and wrap it several times around Viktor’s chin, covering the bit of his face that had him worried, and winked.  “You’re cleared to be up and moving,  _ Viktor-kouchi,” _ they teased.  “You’d better get to it!”

And with that, Yuuri sprang out of their seat and opened the door of the vehicle, taking their first step out into the slightly-less-intimidating crowd and only looking back to make sure Viktor was following suit.  Viktor allowed himself enough full steps on his left side to get him up the stairs and past security before dropping his weight back onto his crutch. He stopped just inside the doors of the sports complex to gather himself, adjusting his coat and pulling back Yuuri’s scarf so he could breathe properly.  Yuuri caught him in their arms as the door shut, showering him with giggly kisses and words of encouragement, offered up in coffee-scented whispers as they walked together toward the locker rooms.

Inside the walls of the sports complex, Viktor could breathe a little easier.  At least there, things happened on  _ his _ terms.  With no wandering fans or rogue photographers to publish something he wasn’t aware of, he could take his time, relax, and mentally prepare himself for the press conference.  With Yuuri next to him, earbuds in and quietly going through their pre-practice routine, he felt secure enough for whatever the day threw at him. He sat back and indulged in watching his spouse stretch, unapologetically enjoying the way the muscles in their back flexed in a seated twist and swooning at the waggle of their hips.  The ease with which they fell into a front split had him sweating in his suit before they’d even begun, so after wandering over and reaching down for a quick squeeze of Yuuri’s hand, he made his way out to the rink itself in search of Yakov, eager once more to show off his new look.

Before he could get to Yakov, however, Viktor was stopped in the hall by Mila, who gaped incredulously as she tried to conceal the curl of her lips behind her steepled hands.

“Did… did you fire Sebastian?” the redhead snickered, shifting her weight to examine him from a different angle.  “Or insult him, or something? Who did this to you?”

_ “I _ did this to me,” Viktor pouted.  “It’s my new look.” He straightened a bit, easing off the crutch, to emphasize the new coach persona he’d cultivated.  “Isn’t it distinguished?”

Mila shifted again, as if finding another vantage point might change her opinion, then shrugged.  “It just looks beardy,” she offers. “Is this because of the press conference?”

Viktor opened his mouth to protest, but was spared by Yuuri, who waltzed out in their thermal tights and long, flowy turtleneck, always Viktor’s saving grace, the only thing he even cared about for the rest of the day.  As his spouse steered Mila toward the topic of an upcoming party at her girlfriend’s place, Viktor began to brainstorm all the amazing things he wanted to tell the press about how Yuuri has helped him grow and heal since the accident.  He wandered further down the hall, deeply engaged in compiling his list, which started with “They took on my students without question and without protest” and continued  _ ad infinitum.   _ He wanted the world to know about Yuuri’s drive, their compassion, their gentle and unaffected patience as they took on responsibilities that no one ever expected of them.  

Yuuri was meticulous and organized.  They always had a grasp on what each day, each week entailed, and how to manage their time and energy to get everything done.  They faded their support so that Viktor never relied on them for too long. He couldn’t say they never complained, but they never complained  _ about him, _ or made him feel like a burden, even when he knew that he was on the verge of being the straw that broke the camel’s back in Yuuri’s busy day.

He considered just how personal the list could grow if he let it, how he could start a whole separate list of all the little ways Yuuri had continued to make him feel wanted, to make him feel strong and sexy even when he was sweaty and cranky, even when he was still chair-bound and attached to a catheter.  Even when he wasn’t able to give them anything in return but his love and his thanks and  _ just one more request to help ease the pain and then I swear, Yuu, I’ll get off your back _ .

“For Gods’ sake, Vitya, can’t you make things easy for me  _ just once?” _ came a throaty growl from just ahead of Viktor in the hall, and he shook himself out of his daydream to see Yakov’s face reddening with ire in front of him.

“Yakov!” he nearly sang, springing forward into his reluctant coach’s arms.  “Are you going to cry today when they ask if you’ll miss having me as a student?”

The old man rolled his eyes.  “I’ve just finished setting up the confetti cannon,” he groaned.  “I just hope it will be enough to convey my joy.”

Viktor laughed, despite the twinge of hurt that Yakov’s words elicited.  “You wound me, Yakov. I’ll need another six weeks’ recovery,” he joked, a familiar, warm delight bubbling up in his chest at the incensed wrinkle of his coach’s nose.

Yakov grumbled something about how Yurio would hold onto this one for weeks, although the downward turn of his mouth didn’t match the sparkle in his eyes as he patted his student on the back and opened the door that led them to the rink.

Everything rushed back to him.  For months, the ice had been just a smell that drifted off Yuuri’s clothes at the end of the night, and suddenly it was real once more, stinging Viktor’s sinuses with its fresh chill.  Georgi was out trying to maintain order with a pack of novices, his frustration palpable even at a distance. Everyone else loitered around the boards in various states of repose. It thrilled Viktor to see Otabek, his second-favorite student, warming up diligently near the rink’s entrance, his face set with focused determination as he stretched.  To his surprise, Yurio was nowhere to be seen; usually the teen could be found glued to his best friend’s side, in and out of practice. It was probably for the better. So far everyone who’s seen his beard has speculated how the rink’s tiger cub would react to his predecessor’s bold new look, and none of the predictions have been in Viktor’s favor.

When Otabek looked up and caught Viktor’s eye, the latter thought he might have caught the slightest smirk flash across his face.  “Pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Nikiforov,” he deadpanned. “It’s quite an honor to train with your son.” 

_ Punk _ .  He and Yurio were perfect for each other.  Viktor swallowed down the retort that was threatening to burst out and waved the jab off with a practiced press smile.  “Otabek! The honor is all mine. I hope Yuuri hasn’t been too hard on you in my absence?”

He watched the Kazakh rise and cross to the bench to start lacing up his skates.  The young man’s hair was a little longer now; his undercut was still short-clipped and clean, but the length on top was now pulled back into a neat little ponytail to keep it from flying everywhere.  Otabek had the look of a soldier, with a face that gave nothing away, but as he laced up, his usual scowl broke into a little half-smile.

“He’s tough, that’s for sure.”

_ “They’re,” _ Viktor corrected.

“Ah, yeah,  _ they’re _ tough.  Sorry.”

Viktor assured his student that it was fine; he knew Otabek wasn’t one to be disrespectful or intentionally rigid.  They touched base as Otabek tied his skates, talking technique and qualifier scores. Otabek had a habit (or a curse, really) of just barely missing the podium, but Viktor was ready to approach the final competition in the Grand Prix without question of who would place.  Otabek deserved more medals, which was why Viktor was so eager to take him on as a student this year.

They trained hard, Otabek pushing his every limit now that his actual coach was back in business, and Viktor doing his best to find his place at the boards.  He’d always preferred a more naturalistic teaching style than Yakov’s park-and-bark routine. He found sitting back and watching without any form of modeling or hands-on pedagogy to be much less effective, so he wound up pacing along the boards and eventually employing Yuuri to get out on the ice and demonstrate when he couldn’t find his words.

_ And what would he have done without Yuuri there? Gone mad with frustration as his ideas and critiques fell short? _

He took lunch right before Yuuri’s session, knowing that he wouldn’t have time to fit it in afterward before the press conference began.  A few of his rinkmates filtered through the canteen, and most of them felt obliged to offer some snide remark about his facial hair. Some asked how he was doing, many were kind enough to say he looked well.  None of them expressed the same enthusiasm for the beard as Viktor felt. 

When Yuuri was done warming up, they joined him, picking spiritlessly at their salad and scrolling through Twitter on their phone.

“Would you tell me if people were talking about me?” Viktor fussed, not daring to look until after he’d addressed the reporters.

Yuuri did not do a very good job of stifling their laugh.  “Behold, the amazing transparent man,” they said. “Of course I would tell you.”

Viktor frowned.  “Even if it was bad?”

“Vitya,” Yuuri sighed, “the two seconds you were outside, you wrapped yourself up like a mummy.  No one is tweeting about a beard they can’t see. This morning you were all kinds of excited. What’s going on?”

“No one’s taking me seriously!” Viktor groaned, slumping down with his head in his arms.  “This is just like when I started coaching you. Everyone thinks it’s some sort of stunt!”

Yuuri hummed their acknowledgment through a bite of lettuce.  “And where were we again on whether or not the goatee is a stunt?”

It was hard to tell if the look in those gorgeous brown eyes was serious or not.  Yuuri looked, if nothing else, expectant, which made Viktor think they really wanted to know and weren’t just teasing for the sake of getting his goat.

He hoped a pout could save him this time, and he really milked it, stroking the hairs at the tip of his chin and really leaning into the puppy-dog look.

He needed saving, anyway.  Because he wasn’t sure what his answer was.  He wanted to believe this was something he was doing for himself, some sort of self-care where he let himself live and take risks now that his usual channel for such things was taken away, or that he was just doing what felt natural.  But he really wasn't sure anymore. He really thought coming back out into the open with a fresh look and a strong support system would make him feel more himself, but that was before he was met with such a lukewarm response.

Yuuri seemed to sense his unease and scooted their chair closer to his at the table so they could stroke his hair and rest their chin on his shoulder.

“If there’s anything you do well—and you’ve done well for over a decade before this—it’s charming the press,” they said, their tone low and even, their fingers scratching comfort into the hairs at the back of his neck.  “Don’t try and be anything you’re not, Vitya. Just be Vitya, and they will love you, just like I do.”

The words of reassurance worked like magic, just so long as they came from Yuuri, just so long as they supported him.  He knew they didn’t like the beard. He could deal with that sometime else. For now, he needed them by his side, if only for that day.

 

* * *

  
  


“Home, sweet Makkachin!” Viktor called out into the dark apartment as he and Yuuri dragged themselves through the doorway and dumped their bags into a pile just inside.  “Come give kissies!” His entire left side ached to the point of shaking, all the way up to his shoulder, tense and sore from resting atop his crutch for the entire trip inside.  He cannot remember ever feeling this tired, even on his longest training days. Even during competitions where he hadn’t gotten over his jet lag yet. He was a new kind of tired, one that was sort of raw at the edges and dripping with some complicated emotions that looked kind of like victory but felt kind of like defeat.

Makkachin’s face alight with “someone’s home!” was enough of an energy boost to remind Viktor that he had  _ plans _ tonight,  _ plans _ that involved him and Yuuri and candles and wine they’d brought back from Parma over a year ago.  He dropped to his knees and held his arms out, his old home-from-work routine, and she bounded into his embrace, only to stop short and jump up and paw at Yuuri’s chest, dancing on her hind legs as she licked happy-go-lucky at their chin and cheeks.  Yuuri laughed their musical laugh, a sound that still struck Viktor with joy and inspiration every time he heard it, and it was almost enough to tamp down the hurt of jealousy that  _ his _ … no, that wasn’t right, not with Yuuri.  Makkachin chose Viktor all those years ago when they were both young and in need of loving company, but now they both had Yuuri just as much as they had one another.

He shook his head a little bit against the almost-spiral.  He wasn’t going to get jealous over some dog kisses.

(Not  _ this _ time, at least.  Not with  _ plans. _ )

“Oh, good girl, let’s go get walkies,” Yuuri soothed, their voice as weary as Viktor felt.  “Vitya, do you want to order in? I’m beat.”

Viktor pulled himself up on his crutch, hooking his other arm around his spouse’s middle and pulling them in close for a kiss.  “No,” he murmured, “I’ve got dinner tonight. It’ll take no time.”

Yuuri scrunched their nose again at the tickle from Viktor’s whiskers; he could actually feel the shiver ascend their spine as they laughed and left a tiny peck just under his ear.

Any worries or apprehensions he might have had that day melted away with just one brush of those plush lips against his skin.  His phone, blowing up with headlines detailing his return to coaching and plenty of tweets mourning his smooth face, may as well have not existed when the entryway light danced off of the gold flecks in Yuuri’s eyes.  The impromptu candlelight vigils held by crying fans, still hopeful that he’d return to the ice, could wait until tomorrow. Or never. Viktor didn’t care anymore. 

Viktor had Makkachin’s pure, happy face when he walked in the door, and he had evenings with the love of his life.  He had a rink family that, teasing and joking aside, loved and respected him. He had a career to be proud of and a new, different career to look forward to.

He had soft kisses on the side of his neck.

Thankful Yuuri had introduced him to the joys of the hot water dispenser upon moving in, Viktor made quick work of his romantic Italian pasta dinner.  Of course, it wasn’t  _ real _ pasta, because heaven forbid they eat all those simple carbs, but both he and Yuuri had grown accustomed to the taste and texture of lentil pasta as it became harder for the both of them to keep their respective figures, and they’d come to actually enjoy it as an everyday alternative to the  _ good _ stuff.  Without a whole pot of water to wait and boil, and with spinach pre-cooked from dinner the night before, the meal took about as long to make as Makkachin took to walk outside and potty.

Cooked spinach, toasted hazelnuts, and ricotta cheese went in the blender, penne went in the water, and by the time the second was finished, the first was pulverized into a refreshing looking, mint-green sauce.  He was tossing everything together by the time Yuuri and Makka returned, and he turned just in time to see both faces aglow with excitement at dinner.

That was another thing he could have said at his imaginary All-About-Yuuri press conference:  They loved food unapologetically. They enjoyed it with everything they were made of. It was no lie when Yuuri skated Eros about katsudon, as much as Viktor had hoped it was, but no, their passion for good food was all-encompassing in its intensity.

Viktor loved  _ them _ unapologetically.  Enjoyed them with every ounce of his being, loved letting them consume his senses and his mind on quiet, work-weary evenings in.  He loved making them happy, and it killed him that up until recently, all he’d made them was tired and overworked.

He made a big show of lighting candles and dimming the lights, of picking a playlist to play low on their bluetooth speakers that was romantic but not intrusive or cheesy.  He even came around and pulled out Yuuri’s chair for them when they sat down, keeping close enough to feel them as he poured their glass of Lambrusco.

“What did I do to occasion such a lovely meal?” Yuuri asked, the hint of blush dusting their cheekbones, the glimmer of excitement accentuating the gold in their eyes.

Viktor couldn’t help but smile at that face.  “You did a quad flip a few years ago, and I’ve been pretty fired up every since,” he said through a series a kisses down Yuuri’s neck.  “And then you upped the ante by being so remarkably supportive for, oh, an entire year or so when I was at my lowest? Honestly, Yuuri, I don’t think there are enough romantic evenings in the world that will ever repay that.”

“Oh, um, sorry,”  Yuuri mumbled, suddenly squirming away.  “The beard. I’m sorry, Vitya, it’s so ticklish!”

_ “You’re _ so ticklish,” Viktor prodded, squeezing their shoulder as he took his own seat.  “My face is…  _ something, _ is tickle... _ y, _ tickle _ ful… _  my Yuuri, I hate English.”

“Oh wow, this is good,” Yuuri deflected through a mouthful of lentil pasta.  “Didn’t we have this when we did that opera tour of Italy?”

“First wedding anniversary,” Viktor smiled.  He poured his own glass of wine and took a long sip, watching Yuuri savor each successive bite of their meal.  “Everything was still so adventurous back then.”

Yuuri shook their head, swallowing down a bite.  “I’d say embarking on the journey of healing together is pretty adventurous, don’t you think?”

It was nice, this kind of evening that they’d slipped away from in the past months.  The thing they’d built their marriage on—simply sitting and enjoying each other’s company, being and doing and  _ living _ in each other’s company—had fallen to the wayside all because of one miscalculated jump.

“I missed this,” Viktor admitted.  “I didn’t think we’d ever start getting back to normal.”  He watched Yuuri’s face soften, their features sympathetic and soft in the flickering candlelight, and he knew that the sentiment was mutual.

Yuuri always cleaned up when Viktor cooked, something he couldn’t  _ stand _ but which seemed to make his partner happy nonetheless.  Tonight was no different, except that Yuuri was charged with the extra task of dragging an overly-enamored Viktor back and forth across the kitchen, laughing uncontrollably at the not-unwelcome hindrance of movement that the cage of Viktor’s embrace afforded them.  They wriggled beneath his touch as he plagued them with tipsy kisses, dancing in place with their hips flush against his, silly and sensual and sensational, the way doing dishes used to be. 

The tuneful lilt of a blues singer’s voice floated romantically over an upbeat bass shuffle as they moved together, with and around one another in their shared space.  Viktor hadn’t felt this kind of freedom for a long time. He certainly hadn’t  _ danced, _ cautious as he’s been, but the game he and his lover were playing tonight was beginning to feel like a dance, the way Yuuri swayed against him.  This new old thing, this routine that used to be just that, was so pleasant and intoxicating in the wake of their long, stressful day of work, that eventually Viktor decided they could deal with dishes another time, maybe never.  He swept Yuuri up in his arms and guided them away, out of the kitchen and in the direction of his next set of plans.

“No more work,” he murmured, his voice going darker than he’d quite intended, but the blues singer’s quavering tone urged him on.  He deposited his blushing spouse on the bed and ducked into the bathroom for long enough to snatch up a bottle of botanical massage oil and get the hot water running in the tub.

Yuuri had always been a bundle of contradictions.  They had always made Viktor think twice about what they were saying.  So when Yuuri mumbled, “Vitya, you’re spoiling me!” through an insurpressable grin, their cheeks bright red now rather than just a coy pink, Viktor knew to trust the subtle sprawl of their body across the bed, the way they rolled, as if on cue, onto their stomach, waggling their hips and kicking their feet almost expectantly.

“You spoiled me first,” Viktor teased, swooping in to kiss along Yuuri’s spine as he tugged their shirt up over their shoulders.  “After this past year, you deserve this every time you come home from work.”

Yuuri shivered.  “Ooh, okay, beard,” they squeaked into their pillow, and Viktor felt the weight of disappointment in his chest as he backed off and continued the back and shoulder massage with only his hands.

It didn’t take long for him to get back into it, however.  Not with the shameless, blissed-out expressions that flashed across Yuuri’s face as he kneaded into the curve of their shoulder with his knuckles, or the way they groaned throatily as he worked at a knot just below their shoulder blades.  By the time the tub was full, Yuuri had practically melted into the mattress, cheeks flushed and breathing deep, and Viktor was riding the heady thrill of satisfying his love thoroughly, meticulously like this. He loved to let the world fall away, to melt off the things that were plaguing him, and just focus on Yuuri’s quietly frantic mind, their body which accumulated tension even on their most relaxed days.  He could not always soothe his own insecurities, but he could always soothe his spouse, and the gratification he gleaned from the way they responded, so vocally and indulgently, was enough to calm Viktor as well.

 

* * *

  
  


The next day, Viktor returned to the rink to run his youth class and run through program material with two of his students in the juniors division.  The cat was already out of the bag, he had already blown up the figure skating forums and earned the hashtag #BurnTheBeard on Twitter, so there were no scarves or masks this time, no running or hiding.  He’d urged Yuuri to take a day off, something they hadn’t done since the start of the season, no matter how hard Viktor had begged. Imagining them curled up on the couch with Makkachin, either happily watching tv or passed out like a rock and drooling on the throw pillow, somehow made Viktor so inexplicably happy.

They took such good care of him for so long.  He wanted to do the same, and then some.

He was in the athlete’s lounge, daydreaming about their next big adventure, when Yurio dragged himself through the door and in the direction of the coffee pot.

“Good morning, Yurio.”

“Beka already told me about your beard,” the teen grumbled, clearly still waking up as he splashed coffee into his stained mug.  “And Baba. And, you know, every other person who has access to the internet.”

“Yeah,” Viktor laughed.  “Funny how things spread, huh?  I don’t think very many people like it, to be honest.”

“Do  _ you _ like it?” Yurio asked, throwing himself at his own table and spreading out as though he might take root in the linoleum floors.

“I like the way it looks,” Viktor decided after a moment.  

“It’s way better than the caveman beard,” Yurio grunted.  “Whatever, if you like it, fuck the rest. I think it suits you.”

Yurio was being awfully nice this morning, considering he was still pre-caffeine.  Viktor assumed it was because he had just returned from a trip to Moscow to see Nikolai.  The boy’s grandfather always had a way of softening his rough edges. 

“You’re the first person who’s said that to me.”

“Well yeah,” Yurio said with a mirthful wink.  “I always knew you were a shitty old man. Grandpa made me bring you guys some pelmeni.  By which I mean I want pelmeni and I need you to cook it for me.”

“What am I, your father?” Viktor snorted with a chuckle.

“With that beard?  Might as well be!”

Somehow the gentle ribbing didn’t feel quite as rotten as it had from others the day previous.  Yurio’s sting was harmless, and Viktor knew by then that it was deployed only to cover up the fact that he did, in fact, have feelings.

“I would love some pelmeni,” Viktor said.  “I could use someone to carry my bags for me, this poor old hip of mine.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Yurio laughed.  “Then you’ll  _ really _ look like an old man.”

Yurio waited around for Viktor to finish with his skaters after he was done with his training, and together they took a car back to the apartment, Yurio recounting his battle with Nikolai about moving closer, where the teen could at least be there for him if he needed anything.  It was amazing how much this kid was growing up.

“Anyway, he’s a fucking idiot for staying all the way out in Moscow for another year.  Pretty soon he’s going to be too old to make the trip, and I’m going to have to hire him a nurse, and Beka’s going to have to wire his house with cameras so I can keep an eye on him from all the way out here?  I don’t want that shit, he can live on the ground floor of my place.”

“It’s good that you want to take care of him,” Viktor said, trying to conceal the pride that was swelling in his chest.  “It’s good to have people to take care of. And people who take care of you.”

“Fuckin’ gross,” Yurio spat.  “I’ll jump out of this car.”

When they stepped inside the apartment, Yuuri was right where Viktor had left them, fast asleep on the couch with an imprint on their shirt where Makkachin had been snuggled up on their chest.  The dog was already bounding toward the door, tongue lolling to one side and tail wagging at top speed.

“My sweet girl,” Viktor crooned.  “I missed you all day!”

He crouched down, groaning at the strain on his hip, and held out his arms for his dog.  She stepped her front paws up on his thighs, sniffing curiously at his face, but then let out a little, chirpy whine and moved on to Yurio, whose face was instantly slathered with wet, sloppy kisses.

Viktor’s heart sank.  He couldn’t remember the last time he got face kisses from Makka.  It felt like ever since he’d spent weeks, hell,  _ months _ aching and sleeping in that damn chair, his dear pup had grown cautious of him, distant and wary whenever she came to him for pets.

Yuuri stirred from the couch, stretching out beneath the blanket with a sleepy sigh.

“See?  Makka doesn’t want to kiss the beard either,” they yawned, sitting up and blinking against the afternoon sun.  “What time is it? Hi, Yurio.”

Viktor was sure Yurio responded.  Sure he and Yuuri were joking about Makkachin and the goatee and any number of things right now, but his stomach was lead and his heart was pounding and he found himself racing for the bathroom without another word.

He didn’t care what the internet said.  He didn’t care if Mila found it gauche, or if everyone considered it a publicity stunt, or if it really was one last lingering artifact of his need to regain control after losing his body for the better part of a year.  He would  _ not _ sacrifice love from his Makkachin.  The fact that Yuuri even suggested it might be a possibility that his beard was scaring her away was enough for Viktor to make up his mind on the facial hair issue.

The beard had to go.

For Makka.

He took one last, long look at his face in the mirror.  The look really did age him, in a way that he was realizing he didn’t find all that unpleasant.  Maybe growing older and moving on from the exploits of his twenties wasn’t a curse or a burden. Maybe it was just life.  But life included kisses from his favorite person and his favorite creature, both of whom were currently turned off by the extra bristle anytime they came close.  

Trivial matters like image and pride were one thing.  The soft moments he shared with those he was closest to?  Those were not worth sacrificing for anything.

“Bye bye,  _ borodka,” _ he muttered to himself, scrambling to set up his shaving kit.  “Hello again, life and love.”

When he emerged ten minutes later, clean-shaven and a little embarrassed, Yurio burst out laughing from his perch atop the kitchen counter.

_ “Ha! _  I knew you couldn’t do it,” the teen chortled.  “What did it? Was it the  _ DILF _ tweet?”

Viktor didn’t know there was a DILF tweet.  He almost panicked, but he was too busy falling to the floor next to Makkachin, nuzzling into the soft fur behind her ears, laughing through tears of relief as she soaked his chin and ears with frantically excited kisses.

_ “DILF _ isn’t exactly an insult, Yurio,” he chuckled, rolling onto his back and letting himself drown in Makkachin.

“What does DILF mean?” Yuuri asked from the stove, where they’d already started preparing the pelmeni.

Viktor had never laughed so hard in his life.  Yurio was on the floor now too, sputtering and snorting as uncontrollable tears streamed down his reddening cheeks, the amusement in his eyes almost painful as he gasped for breath.

“Shit!  Katsudon, you—My stomach hurts… Oh my god I’m dying… Viktor… they don’t know wh—” and then he dissolved into a heap of laughter once more.

“What?”  Yuuri asked, blinking innocently.

Viktor sighed, wiping away his own tears and pulling himself back up on his crutch.  He had Yuuri in his arms before they knew what was happening and whispered the meaning in their ear through nips and kisses that he continued to trail down their neck as a crimson blush bloomed across their cheeks.

_ “Oh,” _ they giggled, for once not bothering to push him away.  “Oh, well, yeah, that’s not necessarily inaccurate, huh?”

“Yuck, yuck forever,” Yurio groaned, rolling onto his back and jumping back onto his feet.  “Please just feed me and keep your hands off one another for one goddamn hour.”

Viktor smiled, still clinging to Yuuri with all the needy hunger he’d accumulated over the past few months.

“Fine,” he teased, catching his spouse’s eye.  They returned his gaze with fire and honey and licked their lips, still adorably pink, still absolutely delicious to behold.

“Aw, now I miss the beard,” Yuuri joked.  “Let’s get this dinner made, my love.”

It was stupid to choke up now, here, joking around with his closest loved ones in the kitchen, but that didn’t stop Viktor.  He swallowed hard and nodded, pressing one more kiss onto the nape of Yuuri’s neck and letting the barrage of Yurio’s foul language roll right off his back.

Things were starting to feel normal again.  For the first time since the accident, Viktor began to feel like himself.  Change would come. Obstacles would come. Criticism and rejection would come, but some things were constant, and Viktor was happy to hold onto constant.

Nothing, no matter how earth-shattering (or hip-shattering), could change that.

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh! Thank you so much for reading my Fluff Bang piece - it has been so much fun to be a part of this event and to collab with the lovely [DyeingDoll](http://dyeingdoll.tumblr.com) for the past few months!
> 
> Special thanks to Baph and Creme13rulee for beta work <3 You guys rock and always keep me thinking critically about my work :)
> 
> I post all fic updates to [my Tumblr](http://kingfisherunion.tumblr.com) and [my Twitter](http://twitter.com/snarkybreeze) along with RB/RTs and general shitposts.
> 
> You can also find DyeingDoll on [Tumblr](http://dyeingdoll.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/dyeingdoll) as well, and you _should!!_ Go do it!!
> 
> Kudos, comments, and shares are greatly appreciated - be sure to give all the love to DyeingDoll for the _amazing_ art!!!


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